


not from the stars do i my judgement pluck

by coconutcluster



Series: Kingdom Come [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Prinxiety - Freeform, Virgil is mentioned, but you dont REALLY need to read that one to get this one, kingdom au, logicality - Freeform, this is a kind of spinoff of blue eyed morn in modest grace, you just wont understand the whole 'boy in the mountains' business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: Roman returns from his delivery and raves about a boy he met in the mountains, which is ridiculous enough on its own, but Logan doesn't quite mind - he has somewhere else to be, anyway.(aka Patton's a darling and Logan is a mess)
Relationships: Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: Kingdom Come [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570612
Comments: 12
Kudos: 131





	not from the stars do i my judgement pluck

“His eyes were the loveliest shade of brown, and- oh, his _smile_! He had this smile, crooked and brilliant and beyond stunning, I could go on for days and I’d never be able to describe it well enough-”

“Well, you’ve been going on for about an hour now, so I’d say you’ve at least made an acceptable effort.”

Roman’s lovestruck shadow of a smile didn’t disappear at his friend’s dry commentary; he just let his eyes fall shut, dropped his head back against his pillow, and sighed for the thirtieth time since he returned to their quarters that morning. “He was like an angel fallen to Earth, Logan,” he said softly, eyes fluttering open again as he gazed at the painted stars across the ceiling, his face cloudy with memory. He turned a little red-sashed doll over in his hands, twirling the edges of its stray straws idly, fingers slow but steady - he always was one for constant movement, as if he’d implode if he stayed still and let his odd whimsy build up inside too long.

Logan finally turned around at his desk to squint at the moony-eyed messenger. “Biblically, I believe that makes him more akin to a demon.”

“Hm?”

“In the Bible. Fallen angels fell because they were expelled from Heaven, making them demons.”

“...Ah.” Roman looked up to frown at him, nose scrunched with distaste and dopey grin fading as he blinked at the cartographer, who just blinked back. “I just meant… nevermind.” With a final sigh, far more exasperated than romantic, Roman dropped his head back onto his pillow and studied the ceiling once more. “You’re not one for love, my dear friend.” 

And Logan didn’t know how to favorably protest that, so he just raised an eyebrow and conceded, “I suppose not.” 

The conversation - if one could call it that, considering it had consisted largely of Roman gushing about some boy, who he’d met in the _mountains_ of all places, while Logan assembled a package at his desk in silence - lulled to a stop after that as Roman’s eyes fell shut, a shadow of a smile still on his face as he replayed some memory to himself. Logan wasn’t complaining; he had somewhere to be, and the less questions thrown his way by his overly excitable friend, the better. 

With one last check to make sure he had everything, he was out the door of their room and slipping down the hallway to the servants’ exit. It was early afternoon, so it wasn’t likely that many guards would question why a servant was heading in the direction of the kingdom’s small town with a brown-paper package in hand, but Logan still weaved his way through the maze of deliveries just outside the castle rather than waltzing past the sentinel watching over the palace’s side entrance. 

(The guard’s eyes had long since glazed over, his posture slightly slumped; Logan had an inkling that he was itching for action, and a quiet mapmaker trying to slip by would no doubt be a perfect target for such entertainment. He avoided most guards on that inkling, truthfully: silence and diplomacy, in all his six years at the palace, had never achieved him more than jokes he didn’t catch until long after they were told. Perhaps that’s why he and Roman didn’t get along when he first arrived. Roman’s poking fun was far more obvious, and Logan finally found a chance to shoot back while the laughter still rang; of course, now he knew Roman would be distraught if he ever thought Logan’s feelings were actually hurt by his banter, and he was the first to snap at anyone who made his friend the subject of subtle jeers, not to mention Logan hardly cared what others thought of him. Still, he was never eager to deal with the headache of it all.)

Headaches and bored guards (if one could make the distinction) aside, he made it through the stacks of flour and burlap without incident and started toward his destination. The town was only a few minutes walk, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the package in his hands as he made his way down a foot-worn dirt path - he was glad, at least, for the early spring sounds around him, a distraction from the odd flutter blooming in his stomach. He counted them as he walked: three birds calling to each other in the treetops overhead, one breeze making a rather pleasant whistle through the evergreens, five children screaming with laughter as they ran around each other in some game, eight, nine, ten crunches of stone and dirt beneath his feet. Four careful breaths to slow the racing in his chest. 

He was delivering a package, he reminded himself as the town came into view and the racing doubled despite his efforts, and was there really any reason for such ailments? He made plenty of deliveries. Maps, sure, and usually only around the castle, but still - a delivery. That was all this was. 

Another gaggle of children raced past him as he reached the first building at the entrance of the town, a rundown store with shelves of damaged goods that Logan could just see through the holes in the door before the owner peeked out to sneer at him and shoo him onward. He paid little mind to the people milling in the street - it wasn’t quite because they made him uncomfortable, with their scrutiny of his clothes or jeering calls about the royal insignia poorly sewn onto his bag, but more that they simply weren’t who he was looking for - as he walked past various others stores, glancing at their signs as if he didn’t know exactly where he was headed. (He did, however, pause by the entrance to the bookstore and struggle to convince himself it was an unnecessary stop. He resigned to just waving at the kindly old woman who owned the shop before forcing himself to keep walking.)

The town was small, meager in comparison to the grand castle looming over it, but its roads were twisting, and many storefronts were situated in alleys that one could easily miss if they weren’t paying attention. But Logan paid very close attention. When the cobblestones beneath his feet finally became even, and the nondescript tan of the town’s buildings was broken by a burst of bright purple perennials in an aged flower box, he peered into the alleyway between the blacksmith and apothecary; there, tucked away, was the wooden door Logan had committed to memory, from the notch near the top, right against the doorjamb, to the small _PB_ etched into the bottom corner in the clunky handwriting of a child. 

The racing in his chest subsided at last as his eyes found the carefully drawn sign hanging above the door, as the warm smell of baked goods drifted to his nose. He took one last deep breath, walked to the door, and pushed it open.

Immediately, the familiar smell of dough and cinnamon greeted him. Mixing perfectly with the warm afternoon sun that drifted in through a small window at the side of the bakery, Logan was inexplicably reminded of early mornings with his mother, when they’d bake the week’s bread together, back when he was hardly tall enough to reach the tabletop in their hilltop cottage. It was usually a bittersweet memory - he avoided it until he was safe in bed, and even then, only when Roman was asleep and wouldn’t wake at hiccups, however soft - but something about the bakery made it safe to remember and reminisce. It almost felt as if the little boy standing on his tip-toes to sprinkle flour across the table still existed in him, as if the bakery’s golden light and baskets of bread and muffins reassured him that some cornerstones of his childhood were there to stay. The tension of the walk through town dissipated from his shoulders at last.

His fingers tightened around the package, though, as a voice called out from the back, “Just a second!”

His eyes flitted around the room as he waited for the baker to come to the front of the shop. Seven loaves of bread in a basket on the counter, he counted idly, four plain and three sprinkled with sunflower seeds; two muffins sitting neatly on a square of brown paper, waiting to be wrapped; five bundles of wildflowers spotting the windowsill and tabletops; one offkey, whistled tune drifting from the back of the bakery; too many taps of his shoe against the aged wooden floor to number. He tugged his coat tighter despite the heat and forced himself to be still. 

“I’m sorry about that,” the voice called again, slightly out of breath, as if they’d hurried to finish whatever they’d been doing. Logan snapped to attention. “My dad’s out on a delivery, so it’s just me tod- oh, Logan!”

The baker - or, as Logan supposed was more accurate, the baker’s son - emerged from behind a shelf of flour, stopping in his tracks as his gaze found Logan. His freckled face broke out in a smile, eyes bright behind crooked glasses. 

“I didn’t know you were stopping in today,” he simpered, “or I would have made your order already-”

“I’m not here for a muffin, Patton,” Logan assured him (although the thought of one of the bakery’s blueberry muffins did sound excellent - but alas, another time). 

Patton paused his bouncy step and quick gathering of ingredients to blink at the mapmaker before him, and gave a small, frank “Oh.” He looked down at the muffin tray already in his hands, set it gently back on the shelf, and brushed his flour-covered hands on his apron as he made his way to stand behind the counter, eyeing Logan curiously, though a warm smile remained on his face. “What can I do for ya, then?”

One deep breath. Three taps of his fingertips against the brown paper package. Five words. “I brought something for you.”

He held the package out immediately, which was a bit of a mistake, because Patton jumped a little - the baker stared at the gift when he recovered from the spook, eyebrows furrowed and mouth quirked into a hint of a confused smile. 

“What, for me?” he asked, reaching out for the package. Their fingertips brushed as Logan handed it off to him; the mapmaker curled his fingers into his palms, resisting the funny urge to reach further and bring their hands together instead, and nodded. “You didn’t have to get me anything- it’s not even my birthday!”

“Oh, I know. The only person in the town with a birthday today is the cobbler’s grandson.” Patton gave a silent _Oh_ and nodded along for Logan to continue. “This,” Logan gestured to the package, “is far more practical than it is celebratory.” Patton’s momentary excitement struck him suddenly; his eyes flickered to the gift and its slightly crumpled paper, something akin to guilt flooding his chest, and far more quietly, he added, “I’m, ah, sorry. If it got your hopes up for a moment.”

Patton’s confusion melted away with another smile, simple and stellar and enough to make the odd flutter in Logan’s stomach reappear tenfold. “Your visits are gifts of their own, Lo. Anything you give me is just more to cherish.”

(The odd flutter reappeared far, _far_ more than tenfold.)

“Oh, what am I waiting for,” Patton laughed to himself, a pretty blush coloring his cheeks. “I should probably open it!” 

Logan managed a laugh that only sounded half-choked, “Yes, that might be helpful.”

Without another moment of hesitation, Patton untied the twine bow holding the paper together and let the string fall to the counter, biting his bottom lip as he focused on peeling the wrapping away. Four pieces of paper drifted to the tabletop, one present revealed, and three seconds of silent studying. Three seconds passed by in which Logan swore his heart would beat out of his chest. 

“It’s a bit late in the season for it,” he admitted as Patton stared at the gray fabric folded neatly in his hands, “but you said you like taking walks, and it’s still brisk out, and your coat was so thin, you’d no doubt get a cold before spring’s really begun, so I just thought you might like something a bit warmer.” One, two, three more seconds of that silence before he added quietly, “That’s all.” 

Patton still didn’t say anything, and Logan’s heart sank. “Patton? Is… is it alright? You don’t have to wear it if you don’t-”

“ _Logan_ ,” the baker whispered, finally looking up - he seemed on the verge of tears, but his face was bright with a magnificent smile. “It’s _amazing_!”

He let the fabric unfold and held it up to take its full nature in; it was a pale gray cloak, edges trimmed in white with an identical cotton ribbon acting as a clasp. The material was hardly wool, but it was undeniably warmer than the moth-eaten coat he had before, warmer even than Logan’s coat (which wasn’t difficult, considering Logan got his coat from a soldier who’d been promoted to head of the guard and deemed the article beneath his new status, and it was no less than twice Logan’s age at that point). The afternoon sunshine painted the fabric a pleasant golden shade, a cool-toned counterpart to Patton’s strawberry blond curls.

“How…” Patton’s eyes roamed over the cloak, fingers tightening around the fabric, as if he needed to be sure it was real, tangible. “How on Earth did you get this?”

“I had one of the tailor’s apprentices at the palace make it,” Logan said with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t fully considered what to do if Patton hated it, and the moment of that possibility was almost more than he could handle. 

“But you- it- that must have cost you a fortune!”

His mind flickered back to the mischievous glint in the apprentice’s mismatched eyes as they shook hands; no money made for... _interesting_ deals, but better to negotiate with Damian than Remus. “That’s not important. 

“What _is_ important,” he said, straightening up once more as Patton stepped out from behind the counter for more room to admire the cloak, “is that you now have a far more suitable winter garment, and we need not fret about you getting ill - at least, not as easily.”

Patton peeked around the cloak to raise his eyebrows at Logan. “We?” he repeated, his smile growing as Logan felt heat rush to his face. “Did you worry about me?”

“Well, I- of course, in that- well, we’re friends,” he finally managed, though it just made Patton’s teasing grin get brighter, “and I suppose that’s what friends do, right?”

Patton watched him for a moment, eyes twinkling. He looked between Logan and the cloak in his hands, and with a small tilt of his head, he gave a rather pleased smile and said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Logan’s eyes flickered across Patton’s bright face in the beat of silence that followed. Roman’s words echoed back to him abruptly, airy with regard, _“He had this smile, crooked and brilliant and beyond stunning, I could go on for days and I’d never be able to describe it well enough.”_ Logan couldn’t speak for the boy in the mountains, but Patton’s smile was undoubtedly something of note as well; it was radiant, painted with joy in the most innocent sense of the word, and with just one glance, Logan felt a curious and curiously pleasant heat color his face that he just _knew_ was something detestably fond. (As he watched Patton give a happy little sigh and drape the cloak over his arm, Logan thought it wasn’t so detestable after all.)

“Thank you, Logan,” Patton said softly, turning his gaze back on the mapmaker with that lovely smile. 

“Of course.” Logan could have stayed rooted to that spot for another lifetime, memorizing the scene for the sheer sake of holding on to the warmth in his chest, but a sudden sense of duty struck down the idea before he could even humor it. He gave a miniscule sigh and said, with as little dejection as he could manage, “Well, I really should be getting back to the palace now.”

Patton’s expression faltered - something in Logan’s chest stuttered at the inclination that Patton was as disappointed at his exit as he was - but he quickly recovered and nodded. “Thank you for coming by,” he said brightly, and before Logan could react, he stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the mapmaker’s cheek. 

“Be safe!” he said as he pulled away, smile bright once more. 

Logan felt as if every system in his body shut down at once, but somehow he managed to nod - as Patton went to reclaim his spot behind the counter, Logan cleared his throat, trying in vain to regain his senses, and gave his best attempt at an acceptable farewell as he filed out of the bakery and back into the cobbled streets of the town. 

He was a fool, he knew as he started back toward the castle. An absolute fool. 

_One fool_ , he counted with a small chuckle to himself, nearly tripping on a loose cobblestone, as if to prove his own point. _One racing heart, one dopey smile. So, so many heartbeats._

Even as the townspeople stared after him, as he arrived at the castle entrance and felt the guards’ snickers follow him, as Roman poked fun at him as usual once he arrived back to their quarters, the bright feeling in Logan’s chest that seemed to spread to his fingertips and made his mouth quirk into a smile (no matter how many times he smothered it) remained, warm and radiant. 

_One excellent afternoon._


End file.
